All The Roads We Have To Walk Are Winding
by free-pirate
Summary: They walk the winding road to ruination as only people who are doomed can. Sam/Dean.


Dean doesn't let Sam out of his sight for nearly two months after Cold Oak. It's disturbing in day-to-day life; Dean follows him around like some odd looming pit bull, stares down everyone who looks at him sideways. It makes Sam squirm, but he doesn't bring it up. He imagines he'd do the same thing if their situations were reversed.

Of course, Sam knows that Dean would never do anything as stupid as turning his back on an enemy, no matter what was going on around him.

* * *

Guilt is plastered all over Sam's face. When Dean makes another filmy excuse to go with him to get coffee or food (or, really, anywhere where he might have to interact with other people), when he thinks Dean isn't looking.

Sometimes, it seeps into his eyes when he looks at him. Just a flicker, so fleeting Dean barely has time to recognize it before it's gone and Sam's guarded again.

He knows that Sam blames himself. That's just what Sam does, how his brain works; if the world ended, he would feel guilty. Like he knew, like he could stop it, even if he didn't or couldn't. What Dean doesn't know is what _makes_ Sam's brain work that way.

He wants to tell Sam that it wasn't his fault and there's no way he could have stopped it. Wants to say that if he's going to blame anyone, blame Dean, because he's the one that failed at the one job he'd had since he was four years old.

Not that he wants Sam to blame him, really. But when he glances over at his brother and sees that expression again, he'd rather have Sam yell at him, hurt him. He knows, vaguely, the sort of thought-processes that Sam comes out with, and he'd sell his soul all over again just to save his brother the hell that he's putting himself through.

If this new obsession of Dean's is disturbing regularly, it's downright scary when they're hunting.

He goes out of his way to make sure that Sam is okay at all times, throws himself in the path of anything that even looks like it might be coming toward his brother. Sam can't remember Dean being this protective over him since before he graduated high school, but he grits his teeth at Dean's recklessness and keeps quiet about it.

The water's getting muddy between them and Sam doesn't want to risk the chance that something he says might be wrong or set his brother off. But there's a chimera on Long Island that brands Dean's mistake into his right arm and Sam can't take it anymore.

He slathers aloe onto the burn later, tapes gauze over it and purses his lips when Dean sucks in a breath.

"Dude, what's wrong with you?" He asks, packing the first-aid kit back into his duffel.

"Damn chimera roasted my arm, that's what--"

"No," Sam interrupts, because Dean is avoiding the subject in true Dean fashion and he isn't going to let this one go. "Why do you keep going out of your way to make sure I don't get hurt?"

The look he gets for his trouble clearly says that this should be the most obvious answer in the world. "Because it's my job, Sam. It's what I do."

Sam sighs. Not that he thought this confrontation was going to be easy, but he hoped that Dean would at least pave the way. "That's not what I mean. You _have_ always taken that too seriously, though. I can take care of myself." He regrets the words as soon as they're out, because Dean drops his gaze, turning his head to stare at the window like it's interesting.

"Yeah," he says a moment later, smirking down at his own hands and then looking straight ahead again. "Yeah, I know. Just don't think you should have to." Dean leaves off the _not while I'm still around._

It hangs between them, a tangible weight, and Sam doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to tell his brother that he's going to have to soon enough anyway, and that he had the whole time he was away at school.

"Dean..." he starts, sitting on the edge of the other bed. When he finally finds the words to continue some moments later, Dean's shoulders are tense like he's awaiting a blow. It gives Sam pause, but he goes on anyway because it's going to have to be said sooner or later.

"You've taken care of me all of our lives. It's messed up that our definition of that is nearly getting your head ripped off, or your arm roasted, yeah. But can we focus on taking care of you for the rest of the year?"

He thought that getting this out would lessen the weight somehow, but it doesn't. If anything, it adds to the invisible strain that's stretched between their places in the room.

And he thought he'd get an answer, an argument, but Dean is silent and still looking away. Like he can't deal with this right now or can't get his mind to work around the walls he's constructed and work with his mouth in tandem. So Sam gives him time, would give him space if he wasn't still doing that disturbing looming thing, and hopes that it helps him rationalize with what this is.

* * *

Sam has never known how Dean's mind works, mainly because no sane person could keep up with the way he forms associations or jumps from thought to thought. It's jerky and strange and totally unique, just like everything else about his brother.

It's something, like when Dean would follow orders from their father without thinking twice or the unbalanced fixation he has for the Impala, that Sam knows he's never going to understand. He doubts that Dean understands it half the time, just wanders along from revelation to revelation with a purpose and not much else.

So he doesn't completely understand why it takes his brother so long to get his head around this. Maybe it's a sore spot that he isn't quite masochistic enough to stab yet, or maybe he thinks that if he ignores it long enough his year'll be up before they have to talk about it.

Thing is, Sam can take the fighting if it comes down to it. He can take the jokes about his masculinity (or lack thereof), the smart-ass defense technique that Dean's had honed and perfected since he actually had to start using it. At least that way, he's talking about it. What he can't take, can't stand more than any other annoyance in the universe, is when his brother just_ doesn't_.

He could be dealing or he could be not-dealing, but whichever it was Sam wished that Dean wouldn't keep it all locked up in his head and fucking talk about it already.

* * *

It's nearly six weeks later when Dean makes some sign of coming 'round, though Sam has to admit his brother's methods take him totally by surprise.

They've spent most of the night in a bar, and Dean hasn't yet gone to chat up a girl or work the pool tables. Sam knows something's wrong, because Dean is nothing if not predictable. There's a pretty common template for the nights they go out, usually consisting of at least one shapely blonde with a high-pitched giggle, beer (sometimes more), and pool (or darts, if they aren't pinched for money). Usually, Sam sits back and watches, running over the research for whatever gig they're working that week or scanning the crowd for suspicious persons.

Tonight, Dean just sits in the chair on the other side of the table, slouched down in a way that can't possibly be comfortable on the hard wood. He's watching Sam when he thinks Sam isn't looking, like he's gauging, measuring. It's all slightly unnerving.

As he's working the label off his fourth bottle, Dean asks if he's ready to go. Sam decides not to say that he's been ready for the past two hours or so, but nods and pays the bartender what they owe her on the way out. He eyes his brother's back as they retreat, the twitchiness he's trying so hard to hide. The result would be comical if Sam wasn't so worried; Dean looks like an indecisive spider.

"Hey," he says, once they're free of the smoky air of the bar's interior, "what's up?"

His brother pauses, or might have at least, because the next moment he's still walking. Sam frowns. "Dean?"

The streetlamp gives off a pale orange glow, and it's the only light along the damp street. Sam's glad for it, because otherwise he wouldn't be able to see Dean shake his head slightly and keep walking. Without thinking about it, Sam strides forward and grabs his brother's bicep.

Reflexively, Dean jerks away and tries to shake him off, but Sam was expecting this. He counteracts by pushing slightly, making Dean face him, but he doesn't let go.

"What's up?" he repeats, faces up to his brother's glare because he knows he deserves it.

This still doesn't earn him an answer, though, so he gives up and lets Dean go. He might have pushed him slightly harder than he'd meant, but only because he was being kept in the dark about something and they both knew that didn't end well.

"Fine," he mutters, stepping back, a moment before Dean's newly healed forearm is at his throat and he's being pushed back against the brick so fast and forcefully his head bangs against it and ricochets back.

He's disoriented for a moment, while Dean just holds him there, glaring at a spot on the brick over Sam's shoulder. "What the _fuck_, Dean." he sputters once he recovers. He has no idea what he's angry about. Sam quickly does a mental evaluation of the day, but it's just been the usual... driving, stopping in ratty little gas stations and an old diner to refuel; they're on their way to Maple Springs. Nothing that he can remember saying in the past couple of days could have wound Dean up so tightly.

And that's where his train of thought abruptly comes to halt. Doesn't taper off slowly, or end in some conclusive evaluation, just stops. Because his brother is drawing closer, centimeter by centimeter as though he's fighting himself every step of the way. Sam doesn't know what to do; there's no room for him to back away and Dean's got him pinned with the arm at his throat. And he thinks that maybe it would be rude, so he just stays dumbly still as his brother approaches.

The orange light casts half of Dean's face in shadow, makes the illuminated half look odd and sharp. Sam can't stop looking at the way it slides over him, over the curve of his neck and angular line of his jaw. There's something flaming behind his brother's green eyes that isn't related to the glow of the lamp at all. The first brush of skin is a cautious one. Light, gentle brush of mouth against his cheek. It's so bizarre that Sam can't stop himself leaning in, relishing in the contact in a way that he knows is wrong.

By the time Dean's lips meet his own, the situation's wrongness has escalated to such an alarming scale that it's lapping back around for a second pass. He stills for a few seconds that stretch on forever, breath mingling with Sam's and warming the place where they're connected.

Then, quickly as this whole thing started the gentleness is gone. Instead of a tentative brushing of skin on skin, Dean's biting at his lips, forceful and bruising and _hot_. Sam has every intention of pushing his brother off of him but he can't get his arms to work right. They hang uselessly at his sides as his mouth is attacked.

There's no other word for it; Sam's been kissed a lot in his lifetime, but mostly by girls. And also mostly _not_ by his brother. But attacking is the only word that can be applied to something this intense.

Dean doesn't pause at all, keeps nipping until Sam responds weakly, because what else can he do? Then, when he feels Sam moving, he starts licking at all the places he'd previously bitten, as if apologizing for them. Sam opens his mouth and lets his brother's tongue slip inside, snakes his own forward to meet with it, and then it's all slipslide and teeth clacking together, biting, _dirtywrong_.

By the time Dean pulls away, lets the arm that's held Sam to the damp brick slacken, Sam's head is spinning and his mouth is dark and bruised and he has no idea what the hell is going on. He stumbles a little, still half-leaning on Dean when Dean pulls away and walks as fast as can still be accepted as walking in the direction of the motel.

For a while he sits there and lets the orange light filter over him. It's lazy the way it falls, but Sam is anything but relaxed.

* * *

Two days later is the first time they fuck. It's nothing like a first time with someone should be, but Dean figures that Sam is nothing like any other person. It fits.

He pushes Sam until he's angry; really angry, angry enough that he'll stop being timid and just_ do_ him. And then he lets Sam bend him over the bathroom sink and fuck him, long and deep and burning like he knows Sam wouldn't consider doing if he hadn't got him so worked up first.

Of course, because he's still Sam, he angsts about it when he's supposed to be enjoying the post-coital high.

After they get over the wrongness of it, it becomes an extension of what they are to each other. Dean thought it might become a big thing, which is probably part of the reason he'd held off for so long. The other part is something he doesn't want to look into.

He wasn't blind. The way Sam looked at him sometimes, even before Cold Oak... it made Dean feel weird, like maybe he would be missed if he ever left, and he was a stranger to the feeling. Logged it away in the back of his mind and actually started noticing when those stolen glances started looking something... _more_.

He was glad that Sam couldn't see when he was completely freaking out inside, because that was one conversation he never wanted to have.

* * *

If you would have told Sam a year or so earlier that this... this _thing_ would develop between him and Dean, he wouldn't have believed you. Not to mention you'd probably get a nice big mark on your face for your trouble, because that was wrong.

Sam wondered when the lines between wrong and _them_ began to blur.

No lightening bolts had struck them yet, and besides a few of the regulars nobody had tried to kill them for it. Sometimes when they were out in public, though, Sam felt like it was written all over his face, if people just _knew_ or could infer from the casual touches that were more frequent then ever before. Wouldn't Henriksen love to slide that in right after 'grave desecration'?

They were just... brothers who happened to fuck, which sounded somewhat better then lovers who just happened to be brothers.

And then there was Dean's deal, which happened to be a whole other issue altogether. Sam searched and searched and had come up, as predicted, with nothing. Dean was still opposed to saving himself as he ever had been, and Sam wondered why it seemed that Dean only committed to things once he knew they were going to end.

He isn't going to be able to save Dean. He might as well get his head around that fact before he has to face it head-on. Dean doesn't want to be saved, won't assist in saving himself. In May, his body is going to die and his soul is going to be subjected to eternal torment in Hell and there isn't a damn thing he's going to do about it.

So they walk the winding path to ruination as only people who know they are doomed can with a purpose and not much else.


End file.
